Chapter 11

Abigail winced slightly at the magistrate’s wife’s loud braying.

She was a lovely woman, but good Lord was she loud.

Still, the dowager had whispered to her, she could use the occasion to practice equanimity in the face of annoying behaviour.

A skill that was apparently absolutely necessary if one were to survive a Season among the haute monde.

The butler had rung the bell, and their small party was making their way to the dining room.

The magistrate, a Mr. Carlson, was escorting Abby, his chitchat a welcome distraction from her riotous emotions.

As soon as she’d walked into the drawing room an hour ago, she’d been aware of Lord Montvale glowering at her from the corner.

This something she felt around him was growing stronger by the day, and it was all she could do to stop herself from going over there and throwing herself in his arms.

Not the behaviour, she supposed, of a proper young lady on the cusp of her first Season.

Ironically enough, she felt her excitement for the upcoming trip to Town waning by the day.

It had all seemed so romantic to Abby back in New York; sail off to pastures new, meet a dashing English lord, and fall in love with him. Marry and have babies and live in the rolling English countryside for the rest of her days.

She would visit and write her family, naturally. But the truth was though she was close to her sisters, Abigail’s parents had never been overtly loving or nurturing.

She wasn’t sure they’d grieve the emigration of their eldest daughter. In fact, she was quite sure they wouldn’t.

It had all seemed so wonderful.

And it was.

She loved it here. But that was the problem. She loved it here. But she wouldn’t be here.

If she were to marry someone this Season, Lord only knew where she’d end up.

Not at Montvale Hall. Not near the crashing, unforgiving ocean, or the rugged beauty of the cliffs.

Not in the village where the locals knew and chatted to her as though she were one of them.

And not, Abby swallowed past a sudden lump in her throat, with him.

Upon entering the dining room, Abby noticed with some dismay that the table was bedecked with multiple vases of the wildflowers she’d picked.

Oh dear.

Mrs. Carlson exclaimed over the loveliness of the arrangements, and Abby found herself wincing again.

She dared a look at the formidable duke and startled when she found him staring at her, his molten silver eyes boring into her and causing her insides to flip-flop in an alarming fashion.

She was going to be in trouble. Again.

Before she had known flowers were such a colossal problem for the master of the house, Abby had asked the butler to ensure the table be filled with them for the dowager’s guests. She wanted the older lady to enjoy her evening since she had confessed to Abby that she didn’t get to entertain very often.

But with everything that had happened since, namely being kissed senseless by the man currently shooting daggers at her, she’d forgotten to tell the butler that the flowers were a very unwelcome addition to the evening’s festivities.

However, it seemed the servant hadn’t needed Abby to tell him, for at that moment, he hurried into the room. Hurried, not glided.

“Forgive me, your grace,” he said as smoothly as ever, but his eyes darted to Abigail’s before they moved back to Lord Montvale. “It will be but a moment to remove the vases.”

While the rest of the party had moved to sit, the magistrate was still holding Abby’s chair for her, but his wife’s voice was echoing so loudly, he thankfully couldn’t hear this exchange.

The butler raised a hand, and a small army of footmen came forward to remove the offending items.

Never had she known such a fuss about a few flowers, for heaven’s sake!

Before any of them touched a vase, however, Robert spoke.

“Leave them,” he said.

Abby’s eyes darted to his, and she saw that he was still gazing at her.

Her heart hammered against her chest.

“Really?” she blurted, before she could help herself. Nor could she contain her grin.

It could have been her imagination, of course, but she thought she detected a tiny, fleeting smile in response.

“Really,” he answered, his eyes never leaving hers. “I’m getting used to them.”

He was going soft in the head.

There was no other explanation.

Why else would he have left his table covered in her flowers?

Why else would he have felt like puffing out his chest in pride when Abigail had smiled at him?

Why else would he have had to fight so hard to keep from smiling back at her?

And why did that smile in response to his small gesture make him want to get her the moon and stars from the sky, if only to have her look at him like that again?

Ridiculous.

He leaned against the balustrade of the veranda that surrounded the living floors of the house.

Their dinner party had, thankfully, ended some hours ago, and after a snifter or two of brandy with James, his friend had bade him goodnight.

And now Robert stood here alone, the bright moonlight illuminating the gardens below him.

The last few days had been hard for Robert.

He’d locked away all traces of emotion many moons ago, yet within these weeks he’d had an actual, real conversation with his mother.

One which hadn’t destroyed him, as he’d feared. If anything, it had healed something inside him.

It wasn’t enough to appease his guilt; that would forever remain a shackle around his heart.

But it had bridged a chasm he hadn’t even known was between him and his mother, and he began to think perhaps it was true that she didn’t blame him. Didn’t hate him.

And then, of course, there was his incessant manhandling of the young woman who was staying under his roof, and who should have been safe from such things.

Why couldn’t he keep his hands off her? Why didn’t he want to?

Robert didn’t dally with innocents. Certainly not innocents who were related to his best friend.

But damn it, he had no control around her.

He, who never lost control of anything.

Worse, she didn’t seem to mind his manhandling. Seemed to take as much pleasure from it as he.

If this kept up, he’d begin to think he wasn’t the monster that he’d always believed himself to be.

And that just wouldn’t do.

He couldn’t start believing himself capable of caring, truly caring about someone.

He couldn’t believe himself capable of doing something stupid like allowing his home to be filled with flowers just because he knew it pleased a woman who was here to marry someone else.

In just two weeks, they’d arrive in London, and within two weeks of that he was quite sure she’d have proposals of marriage coming out her ears.

And she should marry, he knew. It was absolutely right that she should go there and marry someone and move far away from here, and from Robert.

Abigail Langton was made for marriage. She had a heart of gold. It was evidenced in the way she interacted with the servants, in the friendship that she’d struck up with his mother, in the wistfulness of her tone when she spoke of the sisters she’d left behind. In the story of her mother and the wildflowers that had touched Robert’s heart in a way he would never have thought possible.

She was destined for a life filled with wildflowers, laughter, music, love, and babies with a man who could be trusted to keep them safe.

And Robert was not that man.

A movement in the garden below caught his eye, and his mouth went suddenly dry when he realised it was her.

As though he’d conjured her with his thoughts, Abigail came into view, strolling slowly between the rose bushes of the carefully designed garden below him.

He watched her pause here and there to run her fingers along a rose petal, or bend to inhale the fragrance of a bloom before moving on.

She wasn’t dressed in her formal gown of earlier, but neither was she in night attire. He probably would have died on the spot if that had been the case.

As it was, he was finding it difficult to draw a breath from just seeing her glorious hair unpinned and cascading down her back in a riot of golden curls.

The moonlight made her seem ethereal, as though she weren’t even really there. A sprite, too beautiful to be real.

And despite what he’d told himself just moments ago, Robert found his feet moving toward the steps that would lead him down into the garden and toward her.

If she failed to fall asleep every time she thought of Robert Forsythe, she’d never sleep again.

Abigail had tossed and turned for hours before finally giving sleep up as a lost cause.

She didn’t expect to run into anyone out in the garden at two in the morning, but even she with her crass American ways knew it wasn’t at all proper to stroll about in a night rail, so she’d donned a simple white muslin that she could fasten up herself, foregoing the stays and undergarments that required help, and made her way to the gardens.

Perhaps a quick walk in the cool moonlight would tire her out.

She’d tried reading, but the hero of the novel she was trying to concentrate on reminded her far too much of the duke, and so she’d tossed the book aside in frustration.

Silly that she should read so much into the simple gesture of him not removing flowers from the table. Yet that one gesture had made it impossible for her to think of anything but him.

Abigail had an awful suspicion that she was getting dangerously close to falling in—

“Couldn’t sleep, hmm?”

With a squeal of fright, Abigail whipped around at the sound of a gruff, male voice behind her, and only Robert’s arms darting out to catch her as she stumbled backwards saved her from landing on her backside in front of him. Again.

“Y-your grace,” she managed breathlessly. “You scared me.”

His mouth twisted in a sardonic semblance of a smile.

“Yes, I tend to have that effect on people.”

She felt a wave of sympathy at his wry statement, though she was quite sure he would loathe her pity.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she answered softly. “You just move very quietly for such a big man.”

“I do?” he raised a brow, and it was all she could do to stop from reaching up and smoothing her finger along it.

For goodness sake! This would not do.

“You do,” she said, dragging her mind back from all manner of inappropriate places. “Like a panther.”

“And what do you know of panthers?”

She couldn’t read his mood. If she were to guess, she’d say it was playful, which was clearly madness. He wasn’t the type to be playful.

Yet, he seemed brighter these last couple of days. Like the invisible burden that always weighed him down had lightened, if only a small amount.

“I know that they are stealthy,” she answered with a smile. “And sneak up on you when you least expect it. You need your wits about you around them.”

He pretended to consider her words, and Abby felt herself delighting in this side of him.

Which was terrible, of course. She didn’t need this man endearing himself to her.

“True,” he said with mock gravity. “But only if you’re the type of prey a panther would be interested in.”

It took a moment for the meaning of his words to sink in, and when it did, Abby felt her cheeks burn with humiliation.

Well, he couldn’t have made his lack of interest in her any more obvious. And here she was, daydreaming about falling in love with the brute.

“Well, y-yes, of course.” She tried to laugh, but it came out as a sort of maniacal twitter, which did nothing to improve her mood. “I’ll bid you goodnight then, your grace.”

A hand shot out and clasped her arm before she had time to move away.

“I am not the animal expert you clearly are, Miss Langton.” He spoke so smoothly, his tone sending shivers along her spine. And good heavens! Was that a smile? It was breathtaking! He appeared years younger and more handsome than any man had a right to be. “But one thing I know is you are the exact type of prey a panther such as I would devour.”

Well, that did it. Without warning, Abby’s heart took flight and landed very firmly in love with the man who stood holding her arm and stealing her breath.

“Which means,” he continued softly. “That you’re in danger.”

“I’m still not frightened,” she managed, even as her body felt as though it were catching fire.

He smiled again, and Abby felt that she could very much get used to seeing that expression on his face.

“That makes one of us,” he whispered.

And then his lips were on her own, sending her up in flames once again.